Ridere
by A Road Unturning
Summary: And he smiles... *A selection of Marko drabbles.*


_Disclaimer: Don't own LB._

_Half past two in the morning. What the hell am I doing..._

_Someone has requested a Marko piece, and it took me a while to realise I haven't written this character in yonks, and I've never really explored him in full. So I've spent the evening constructing a few effort free drabbles, just in order to define his character a little more for me, and get me back into the gist of writing the Boys (as the Frogs steal all the love) so this fic, when it is done, can be halfway decent._

_I thought I'll post them here for the heck of it. :D_

_Warnings: Eh...not many. The repetition of smiles and smirks is intentional. _

_Ridere is Latin for "To Laugh" or "Smile."_

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A fight has broken out.

Marko is a second too late.

He is of smaller statue then the rest; more reserved and keeping to himself then the other boys, and Greg evidently thinks he is an easy target.

His fist collides with Marko's nose.

Marko is knocked back. Blood drops down to his lip; he flicks out a red tongue, and tastes it, metallic and strange, in his mouth. He observes the panting Greg with cool eyes, and raises a gloved hand to modestly cover his injury. The corners of his lips twitch in anticipation, but he doesn't move.

Greg stills, and with narrowed eyes, waits for the explosion.

Marko just looks bored.

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It is Marko who hurls Greg up, struggling and whimpering, into the churning black of the Santa Carla midnight.

He smirks, all golden eyes and gnashing fangs and hooked claws, and sinks his talons into Greg's gut. The man twists, too agonised to speak, and the beady white of his eyes bulge as a palm is lain over his face.

A light hiss needles its way into the descending silence.

"Got your nose."

The palm becomes a fist. A quick, precise turn, and the stars shrink from the shrieks.

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The girl is an unnecessary addition to their little family.

Yes, she is pretty, and yes, she is a keen attraction for potential prey (although they do that themselves, and Marko quietly ponders the reason for such a presence amongst them.) But Paul is bouncier, more alert and sporadic as usual, and Marko observes David quietly appraising him with all the gravitas of a weary parent.

Her hair is dark, twisted into little corkscrew curls, and her clothing is elaborate, gypsy like, and hand crafted. She lingers in the corner of the cave, skirts gathered around her knees, and watches them, both fearful and intrigued. Laddie balls his tiny fists into her jacket.

A quick slip to David, that is all it takes. A whispered word, the gentle weight of a hand on his shoulder, and the girl would be gone; a fading star on the break of the horizon.

But Marko glances at the brightness in Paul's eyes; the flash of fang hidden in the darkness of his mouth, and at Laddie, who watches _him _and _him _only.

His lips quirk. He cocks his head to the side, gracing the child with a ghost of a smile.

The boy doesn't blink. His jaw tightens, his little form quakes for a brief moment; but the resolve is there, strong, and oddly enough, worthy.

Marko's smile widens.

She shall stay, for now.

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Another fight.

This time, he is taken by surprise. A sucker kick to his stomach and it is the shock, not the pain, which makes him double over.

"Marky Sparky? Are you...?"

Paul's tones are breezy, high, and strung with a growing hysteria. He glowers over Marko's shoulder, to the remaining Surf Nazi, and cracks a mirthless grin.

"You didn't hurt my brother, did you?"

He whoops, and then suddenly, he is gone.

The Surf Nazi blinks. Marko straightens up, heaving his jacket over his shoulders, and waits.

There is a swelling burst of air. The man's cry is cut short as he is yanked up, away into nothingness, and Marko places his hand over his eyes to see how far up Paul has taken him.

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Marko wipes the remainder of the girl's blood from his mouth.

She's sat next to him, sun dress smeared with red, and her neck, grotesquely broken, is leant on his shoulder.

The sea is lain out before him. An indigo layer of empty water. A moon hovers overhead, tinged with a yellowing hue.

Behind him, a crush of sand beneath biker boots.

"Hey, Markers."

"Yo, Paul."

Something soft drops into his lap.

It's an anarchy patch. Marko's brow darkens, the question freezing on his lips. He lifts it up with tentative fingers; turns it over in his hands, checking the width and quality of the material. His jacket is flung over his knees. He experimentally lays it over one of his recently stitched creations.

Behind him, Paul is unsettlingly still.

"I knew you liked it," he murmurs, and Marko can smell the blood on him. "It was on the Surf Nazi. I ate him, so...hey..."

"Waste not, want not," is Marko's soft reply and he can detect no stain from Paul's (usually clumsy) kill on the potential patch.

Paul has stopped being still. He's taking to lightly vibrating on the spot now, stepping from foot to foot, and Marko smirks, awaiting the exact moment to put him out of his misery.

"It's cool, Paul," he says, and smirks instead of smiles, and Paul can barely contain the delight gushing through his face. "It's what I need. Thank you."

Paul goes off like a firecracker as Marko folds the patch carefully, slipping it into his pocket. He can already envision its placement in his mind, about how it will slot effortlessly into the constructed chaos of his miniature Magnum Opus.

Paul throws an arm around Marko's shoulder, eyes sparkling.

"You're welcome, little buddy!"

Marko pats his pocket, and peers at the sky. The current breeze is perfect for an easy flight.

"Paul?"

"Yes, Marks and Sparks?"

"Extract the "little."

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The shadows dance, delirious and wild, in their cave of wonders.

The child sits opposite him. His knees are drawn up to his chin. He isn't staring at Marko, but past him; at the bottle, and the moonlight catching on the tinted surface, revealing the flash of red beneath.

The child sucks on his lower lip. His hunger, intense and strengthening, prickles the flesh on Marko's arms.

He is splayed on David's chair. The leader is hunting with Dwayne, and Paul has spirited Star to a concert that neither one of his brothers could bear to endure. He twists his fingers around a child's cat cradle, entwining and complicating the string until he moulds it into something far beyond its original design. Laddie glances at it every now and then, and then up at Marko, who smiles, and only plays with the toy more fervently.

Silently, the child swings his legs. He turns his attention once more to the bottle, and a darkening intent shadows his brow.

Marko clicks his tongue. The child freezes at the sound, and draws back into Star's bed, pulling the curtains across, that are tainted with age and dust.

It is no place for a child, but is perfect for monsters.

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Marko doesn't belong to Max.

The older vampire scrutinises him soundlessly from over the counter. The multiple screens flicker and blur behind him, like a gabbling mosaic of sound and colour, and silhouette Max's withering skin in a dim, technicoloured sheen.

Marko doesn't belong to Max, heed to Max, beseech loyalty to Max, for the blood in his veins is _his _and _his _alone.

He is not one of David's chosen, for it was Marko who discovered David, and it was Marko who chose _him._

There is a gentle, questioning pull on his mind. Max, polite as always, requests entrance.

Marko lifts his head, and sees the confusion pricking the corners of Max's mouth.

And he smiles, and even more gently pushes him out.

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They are rebel souls, who threw away the sun, forsook the mortal limitations of humanity, and took to the night as if it was their friend; their eternal comforter.

David slips him a cigarette. Marko doesn't care much for the stale bite of nicotine, but he accepts anyway. Their smoke clouds mingle and swell, cloaking them in a shared ash strewn cloud.

David, in low tones, tells him of Max's plan.

It is a foolish creation. A mortal want, and Marko crushes his cigarette beneath his fist.

But upon the mention of Michael, a strange light resounds in David's eyes, and he turns away from his friend, his brother, his _confidante, _and Marko's smile stretches so far it is almost painful.

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Marko is trailing Star and Laddie. His brothers are tiresome tonight; predictable, and caught up with David's new toy.

Star dots in front of him, the broken mirrors on her skirts glimmering with the sway of her hips. Laddie is a small shape beside her. Every once in a while, he throws a cautious glance over his shoulder, and Marko is impressed by the child's cunning.

It's a Comic shop they stop in. A cramped, musty, mundane little place, and Marko hides in the shadow of an old Pinball machine.

This is evidently Laddie's place of interest. They browse the Looney Toons comics, crouching over the pictures and laughing lightly at the brightly coloured pages, and Marko's face twitches. How quaint, and of even less interest to him than before, even with Paul's wolf whistles and Dwayne's knowing silences and David's strange, distracted air.

"Hey, you."

Marko pauses. He turns his eyes lazily to a little punk in a blue Bandana and military get up. His face is unusually hard for a boy his age, and he cocks his chin in quiet challenge. Despite himself, Marko feels his attentions sharpen. There is something offputtingly stony about this teenager, even with his gawkiness and youth behind him, and something akin to curiosity blooms in Marko's chest.

"You gonna buy?"

His voice is rough, almost growly, and Marko lightly rubs his ear. The youth's lips curl.

"No," Marko replies with a grin. He taps his fingers across the Pinball machine. This would look great back in the cave. Dwayne adores these child's games, even with his stoic front. "But this looks good."

"It's broken." The teenager crosses his arms. "It saw your tacky ass coming, and just folded up."

"Tacky?"

"Is looking like a living hazard sign in, then?"

Marko's smile becomes poisonous.

"Don't like it?" He holds out his arm in display. "I think its missing something, to be honest."

"Yeah." The kid cocks an eyebrow. "A shredder."

"Hm. I was thinking more along the lines..." On a closer analysis, the boy's t-shirt has a militant green pattern that would complement the colours on the back. The t-shirt is thick, and starchy, possibly due to it being army attire. He absently reaches out, and folds it between his two fingers. The teenager freezes, and Marko _smiles. _"This would be good, I say."

The threat creeps around his words with a chilling ease. Darkness ebbs into the boy's face; he is no fool, yet he refuses to pull away, from Marko and the flitting spite gathering in his eyes.

"Marko..." Star's voice shatters the silence. The teen shoots her a fleeting glance, and then turns away; the tips of his ears are red. Star doesn't balk from the arch in Marko's eyebrow. "We're done here. Let's go."

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Michael is more than capable.

He is strong, resilient, built from a moral standard that Marko and David have been lacking for the last few centuries. He is curious and charming and secretly overwhelmed by the dusky secrets of their world, and David is all too happy to reel in this new recruit, with a tempered eagerness (or David's type of enthusiasm, be it mind games or dangling Star as live bait) and Marko, ever the clever fox of a friend, may be able to define its core; but he finds he doesn't have the will to weave through the mess of David's plans.

Emotions make you weak, and in doing so, Michael has made his chosen brother..._David_...weak, and Marko loathes, loathes, _loathes_ him for it.

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When his brothers are pitted off, one by one, Marko rests on the bottom of their previous sleeping quarters, nursing the scar tissue resting above his heart.

He is older, stronger, than the rest; this is nothing to him. The youth's aim...Edgar, he is sure that is his name, for the dark haired boy screamed it at David's fierce approach...was a little off, and the brief lapse in judgement has saved him an eternity.

David had refused him vengeance that night. He was to heal, to steel his strength, and the blood from the bottle, fresh and warm from David's wrists, dribbles from his open mouth.

He has no connection with his "brothers." The blood ties are not woven into his own veins, and as he rolls dust beneath his claws, he shall await his brother's safe return.

Cold.

The blood in his mouth is suddenly cold, like ice rupturing through a volcano, and Marko spits it out, disgusted. It is rank, old, devoid of taste and life and _David, _and it takes him a moment to...

His smile is bitter.

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_I have a sudden desire to write an Edgar/Marko fic. The world is not with me today, I swear. :P I hope you liked this effortless piece of fluff. _


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